


my fate, my sweet

by edenbound



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Genderfluid Crowley, M/M, non-binary Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29820552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: Crowley noticed, a few decades ago, that Aziraphale had a certain interest in watching him get ready for a temptation. Now -- well, now Crowley can use that knowledge, right?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	my fate, my sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley is non-binary in this fic, and there is no angst about that. He does not change his body or his pronouns. Being non-binary isn't any one thing; we come in all varieties! Crowley is just a Crowley... and Aziraphale is 100% behind that, no angst here.
> 
> I think I've used this same poem for titles for Good Omens fics three times, and I still have no regrets. I never "got" e e cummings before, but "i carry your heart with me ( i carry it in" suddenly made sense to me when I was thinking about Crowley and Aziraphale, and now I think it's the most beautiful thing. Fandom, better than a literature degree for making stuff click.

Aziraphale is enjoying this, Crowley notes.

He thinks Crowley can't see him, but he's forgotten the mirror. He's quite forgotten his fuss about the drape of his coat, the state of his tie, and his eyes are fixed on Crowley.

Slowly, carefully, Crowley slides another hairpin into the already well-secured coil of his hair, and Aziraphale's breath catches.

Interesting, he thinks. He's taken his time over this, because you can't be sloppy when you want to be convincing as the kind of woman he intends to be tonight, and doing it with a miracle doesn't get you into the right mindset at all. He's also taken his time because it amuses him to needle Aziraphale. He'd been so flustered about the idea of this particular event, where both of them have to influence various heads of state, that Crowley had promised to take care of everything and take Cinderziraphale to the ball in style in his very own pumpkin Bentley -- flippant to hide his concern, and to deflect Aziraphale's gratefulness.

He'll keep his promise, but he had to balance it out somehow, and needling an angel to snappish impatience had seemed like a sure thing. Apparently not.

He reaches for the palette of eyeshadow, and watches Aziraphale watching him.

* * *

There was, in the end, no opportunity to take advantage of his new knowledge before everything went to shit. But somehow, improbably, everything worked out -- and Aziraphale agrees to every dinner invitation, every hint about a new play on at the theatre, every casual suggestion about a new gallery or a lovely little gastropub near the sea.

And this time, Crowley has plans. He's been putting them in place for a while now: first getting Aziraphale used to saying yes to everything, though _that_ didn't require any cunning plans. All the while growing his hair out again, suffering through the stage where it only wanted to stand on end. Then he assembled the outfit, piece by piece: real couture garments, fitted for him. He wants this to be perfect for Aziraphale, he wants to make an effort here and create a moment, _the_ moment, when they can finally --

Aziraphale likes real things: food made with love, tailored waistcoats, hand-lettered manuscripts and old books that have been loved.

He didn't expect to like it so much himself. Didn't expect to develop preferences of his own about the dress he eventually has made: the way it clings to him, creating ambiguities by accentuating the sway of his hips but revealing the flatness of his chest. It hides nothing, and that has nothing at all to do with the cut of it, the slit in the skirt and the way it bares his back.

He doesn't plan to make any changes to his corporation for this like he did before, and the couturier takes it in her stride. Her eyes are curious and kind, and she adjusts the dress to his every request, making a few suggestions of her own. Crowley -- what's the thing they say on the internet (truly one of Crowley's finest works)? Crowley feels _seen_.

* * *

It's closing time in the bookshop when he strolls in. "Angel, hey, you mind if I use the back room to get ready? Didn't have time before leaving my flat."

He doesn't give Aziraphale time to question it -- the point was only to attract his attention -- but heads straight into the back, leaving Aziraphale behind to finish closing up. He twists his hair up in a quick knot to begin with and starts with his makeup: subtle, but enough to slightly change the contours of his face and accentuate his eyes. He doesn't waste time on painting his nails, just miracles them a perfect slick dark red, almost the exact same shade as the lipstick he finally found a week before.

"Oh," Aziraphale breathes, in the doorway. Crowley meets his eyes in the mirror and keeps going: finishes his makeup and then bends to roll on his stockings.

Without a word, Aziraphale is suddenly beside him. He doesn't ask for permission, as though he knows all these years of closeness are permission enough, just picks up one of the stockings and starts rolling it onto Crowley's foot and up his calf, his touch absolutely innocent and absolutely electric all at once. Crowley tells himself firmly not to get the wrong idea, not to get ahead of where the angel is ready to go, and then Aziraphale is looking up at him and all the innocence turns to promise.

He lets Aziraphale help him with the other stocking. Gets up and slips into the dress, not quite daring to look at Aziraphale, feeling more naked with the dress on than with it off. He takes down his hair and starts on that, coiling it up artfully and pinning it into place, slow and careful partly for the touch of Aziraphale's eyes on him as he pushes each pin into place.

"I will enjoy taking that down, later," Aziraphale says, like they do this all the time, like a promise. Crowley wants it so badly his hands shake, and -- "Here," Aziraphale leans over him and takes one of the pins, tucking a stray curl into place. "Let me." He stays close afterwards, and Crowley feels him like a coming storm, electrified but wondrous.

He finishes with the lipstick, smooths it onto his lips in two practiced sweeps. He almost reaches for his sunglasses, and then changes his mind. They don't match the look, anyway. He turns and meets Aziraphale's eyes, and it's like there's no breath in his body.

"You look beautiful, dearest," Aziraphale says, and Crowley can breathe again, feeling Aziraphale's eyes on him like a physical touch, focused and intent and admiring, and everything -- _everything_ \-- he has always wanted.


End file.
